equality, the line must be drawn somewhere, and I am inclined to think
at that stage where gentlemanly feeling and courtesy are absent. A very
obscure individual may, by his conduct on the field, show that he at
least can be a gentleman. In all such manly sports social distinction
ought to be sunk, and that great and noble equality--that equality and
love of honest worth which is so dear to the Scotch (and let me also say
English heart) be ever remembered, when team meets team on the football
field. We are shown noble examples of how in days gone by, peer mingled
with peasant on the cricket field, strove with each other on the curling
pond, and why should not such things exist in football? Let me hope that
as each succeeding season comes round the noble winter game will in
proportion show greater improvement, both in club and individual
integrity, as well as higher scale of moral worth.
_X.--THE DUEL NEAR THE FOOTBALL FIELD, AND THE CAUSE OF IT._
"And you tell me, Frank, that the old ground is at last cut up to form a
railway embankment?" said Bob Smith to Frank Green (whose sister, by the
way, had got married to Pate Brown last season), as they met one evening
at Crosshill.
"They will be long in finding a ground like Hampden Park, I'm thinking,"
replied Green, with the recollections of pleasant games and glorious
victories for the Black-and-Whites, to say nothing of numerous gains to
Scotland in matches with England and Wales.
Since this meeting of Bob and Frank, however, the said Black-and-Whites
have got pretty far forward with a new ground quite close to Hampden
Park, and it is now being levelled up and put into condition. The
railway embankment referred to is part of the Cathcart Railway, which
will assist very considerably in opening up rapid communication between
Glasgow and the whole of the suburban burghs lying south.
While referring to the Southern Suburbs, which, it may be mentioned, are
closely associated with the rise and progress of Association Football,
I cannot refrain from alluding to several genial souls who have helped
to make them what they are. None, however, is entitled to claim more
consideration and credit than Provost Goodfellow, of Suburbopolis, whose
official life, so to speak, has been spent in the cause of suburban
organisation, accompanied, of course, with a due regard for Association
Football.
You must know, my brave Scotch readers, and those hailing from South of
the Tweed, that the Provost of a Scotch burgh or town occupies the exact
position of the English Mayor. He is the head of the municipality, and
is, in fact, a kind of ruler of all he surveys, but about his "right to
dispute," particularly when the November election comes on, why that is
purely a matter of opinion.
Well, the ruler of Suburbopolis was not a despotic man. He was certainly
a little pedantic, and who, I should like to know, would not be inclined
to lean that way if they had taken part in a great annexation fight with
the chiefs of the big bouncing city of Glasgow, and beaten them too?
Some years ago, it may be briefly explained, the Glasgow authorities
devised a scheme, whereby all the suburban burghs were to be taken under
the wing of Glasgow and lose their entire independence, and
Suburbopolis, being close on the touch-line, was to be attacked first.
Glasgow, in fact, was to act as the veritable annaconda, and swallow it
up, but she didn't.
Scotch Radicals, talking politically, had not hitherto much faith in
what they considered an effete hereditary legislature, such as the House
of Lords, but if there was one thing more than another calculated to
bring about a Conservative reaction among the Glasgow suburban
authorities, it was the attention paid to their vested interests by the
Peers.
The Commons had spurned their entreaties to maintain independence with
scorn, and even relegated them to Bumbledom, but their lordships, to
whom the case was appealed, literally strangled the said annaconda
before she began to devour, and Suburbopolis, along with other five
thriving burghs, were saved from municipal death, and still retain their
Provosts. Provost Goodfellow was a most genial soul, and particularly
fond of Association Football.
He could talk about dribbling, passing, and backing-up, as if to the
manner born. The only thing, in fact, which he did not fully understand
was the "off-side rule," and many of greater pretentions were as far at
sea regarding that said rule as the worthy Provost. He was the life and
soul of Charity Cup Ties, and never failed to turn out to patronise
them. Even the charming young ladies of the family (for you must know
his honour had three handsome daughters) knew a good deal about the
rules, and had several excited discussions with their brother Archie
(who was a member of the Camphill), and Bob Lambert (of the
Black-and-Whites), as to the respective merits of sundry clubs.
These young ladies, too, had a long string of admirers, and no family
acquaintance was more eagerly sought after than that of the Goodfellows.
Suburbopolis, however, was by no means devoid of a galaxy of feminine
beauty and well-developed male forms, who might have been seen of an
evening leaving the handsome villas and terraces around the Park (for
which the inhabitants were not taxed).
There were, of course, the families of Colonel Black (an old warrior,
who had been through the Crimea and Indian Mutiny), the Redpath girls,
whose mother was a widow, the Snodgrass young ladies (three in number),
the Misses Bland, residing at Jessimine Lodge, and, of course, many more
lesser luminaries. The Colonel's daughters, or "Golden Slippers," as
one of them was called by several members of the Camphill, who had
caught her in the act of watching a practice game on the eve of a big
Cup Tie, wearing a pair of fur-lined slippers, and had her heart set on
the Camphill beating the Black-and-Whites, was, indeed, the most
handsome girl in the burgh.
I would not dare to attempt a pen-and-ink sketch. It would fail in its
effect. It's all very good for you fellows who have no soul for feminine
loveliness to talk about girls, like babies, being all pretty much
alike, but you are wrong--entirely wrong. Jenny was, in fine, a "bonnie,
bonnie lass," and scores of young fellows, I know, would have gone
considerably out of their way to have received "ae blink o' her bonnie
black e'e." Emma, although scarcely so tall, was very like her sister,
only shorter in the temper.
After sundry matches at the field, Jack Black used to take a few of his
companions up to the Hillhouse, and the young ladies received them
graciously--congratulating them when they won their matches, and
"chaffing" them unmercifully when they lost.
There were at least three suitors for the hand of Jenny, but one of them
resided in London, and the other at Skyview Villa, a couple of hundred
yards from Hillhouse. It can be easily imagined that the local man had
the advantage in the courtship, being, as the special correspondent
always prides himself in adding to his communications, "on the spot."
Bob Lambert was, to be sure, a welcome visitor at Jenny's residence, and
a fast companion of her brother Jack, and what was more, Bob was quite a
favourite with the old Colonel, who admired his fine appearance in the
football field, and the brilliant manner in which he could "back-up"
when that was needed to win a game. Bob, I must confess, was really a
nice-looking fellow, with black curly hair, and a good broad chest. His
features were well formed, and he possessed penetrating dark grey eyes.
There was one thing, however, which told against Bob in many ways, and
that was his hasty temper. He could brook no rival in his position as
the best forward in the Black-and-Whites, and a word or two from the
captain at a practice game was sure to upset him. He sometimes, in fact,
took the pet altogether.
Once, when playing a Cup Tie with the Athletic Park, he met his match in
Charlie Walker (another of Jenny's sweethearts), who played at
half-back, and the work done all through that eventful match was seen
between the pair. Talk about coming in contact with "mother earth," why
that was positively child's play when the two met.
Walker was also a powerful fellow, and it was a case of Greek meeting
Greek. "Bumping at Oxford," to use an aquatic term, why it was nothing!
At one time Bob was seen tossed up in the air as if from the horns of an
infuriated bull, and at another Charlie was observed lying on the field
at Bob's feet. What did they care about the ball being fifty yards off?
Not a straw, so long as they tackled and kept each other away from it.
"That's not football," says one, "it is horse play." "Never mind about
football in a Cup Tie," says another, "let the heaviest team win; go
into the fellow." "Oh! gentlemen, gentlemen, fie, fie, Association
Football is an amateur game, and as long as I play it," said the
captain, "there shall be no cruelty done on either side."
Little did the spectators know the real cause of the inordinate tackling
done by Bob and Charlie, but the secret soon came out. The pair had
previously been rivals for the hand of Jenny Black, and Bob was looked
upon as the winner. At least Charlie had not been seen at the Black's
Villa for two or three months, and before this he always made it his
house of call. But what about Harry Carts, Jenny's English sweetheart?
Why, I had almost forgotten him.
A team of Cantabs had played the Black-and-Whites just a year
previously, and Harry was one of them. He had been invited to spend an
evening at the Colonel's house, and had fallen desperately in love with
the bonnie Scotch lassie. Bob was also specially invited and was present
that evening, and although trying to be as affable as possible to the
friendly stranger and opponent, could barely hide his jealousy when the
gallant English forward kissed the lovely girl's ruby lips in a game at
forfeits.
Bob said nothing about it to Jenny, but Emma, the youngest sister,
whispered to her brother Jack that Bob's eyes had a wild look that
evening. The matter, however, was soon forgotten, as Harry Carts left
Glasgow the next evening for London, after his gallant team had played a
drawn game with the Scotch Black-and-Whites--the first one ending in
that way, be it observed, that had ever been played between them and an
English team on Scottish ground in the memory of the proverbial "oldest
inhabitant."
Harry Carts, to give him his due, was one of the best Association
football players ever England produced. When Mr. C. W. Alcock and a few
choice spirits in London, it is true, first opened the eyes of many
football players to the value of the Association rules, and inaugurated
the Football Association in 1863, Harry was a mere child. Appearing at
college, however, he soon showed a liking for the dribbling game, and
never lost a moment in doing his best to acquire everything he was
likely to know about it.
Just the season before our story opens, he had been chosen from an
imposing array of names sent in by his club, and also the branch
Associations, for an honourable place in the "Great International." His
superiority, in fact, put his place beyond doubt, and he stood to
represent his country first, and club afterwards, in a tussle which
proved disastrous to England; but it was admitted by all who witnessed
the match that Harry was one of the best men on the Field, and, in
company with his half-back, showed the best form and pluck--the
victorious Scotchmen notwithstanding. How the pair above mentioned
tackled and passed up, to say nothing of backing and nursing the ball, I
know full well, for I saw the game. Harry and his companion, in fact,
were again and again cheered for their magnificent dribbling, and when
the eventful game was over Harry was carried shoulder-high, in real
Scotch form, to the Black-and-White's pavilion.
The incident did not escape Jenny and her sister, who were standing on
the gravelled walk in front of the pavilion. Jenny was sympathetic when
she saw the handsome young Englishman cheered by the excited crowd, and
when the excitement culminated into carrying him shoulder-high to the
pavilion, a brilliant flash from her eye told the tale of regard. The
young lady, despite assertions to the contrary, must have at least
admired the young Englishman; and among the blithe and gentle faces who
swept their cambric handkerchiefs over their heads, none were more
demonstrative than the Black girls. They saw, with something akin to
pride, Harry let gently down at the pavilion door, followed by their
brother Jack, Jim Wallace, and Bill M'Clelland, all of whom had done
great work in the big match.
Harry did not lose sight of the handsome face which had haunted him all
the previous summer, notwithstanding his flirtation with the Italian
girls in Venice. Venice, beautiful Venice! It was in thy classic city,
close to the scene of the great Italian poet's labours and triumphs,
that poor Jack Vincent (who used to play left wing in the Swifts) was
found drowned, after attending a ball. Poor Jack, I think even now I can
see his handsome, but withal, comical face, when he used to dodge sundry
half-backs while playing for his club. Poor fellow! grave hints were
held out at the time that he had met with foul play, but nothing more
was ever heard about the matter, and Jack's friends never got any
satisfaction.
I am, however, going off the line with my brief story. Carts, in fact,
felt Jenny's face haunting him wherever he went, and on the earliest
opportunity came back to Scotland, asked the dear little girl to be his
wife, got the crusty old Colonel's consent, and the pair were all but
apparently engaged to be married at an early date. Harry was splendid
company either on the field, at the Black-and-White's room in
Battlefield Hotel, or at the villa. He could sing a good song, tell a
good story, and crack a wild joke. Harry used to sing a new song about
football, the chorus of which jingled out:
"In measured blow, the dancing feet,
Now moving slow, now galloping fleet;
With a leap and a curl,
With a sweep and a twirl."
He declared that the song was original, but Archie, who was a bit of a
book-worm, and never neglected taking in the "Monthlies," expressed
grave misgivings about having seen something like it applied to a skater
in "Scribner's Magazine."
Bob Lambert and Charlie Walker, the other two young fellows who were
looked upon as Jenny's admirers, were terribly shaken in heart and
spirit when they heard of her flirtation with the handsome young
Englishman; but such a thing as an engagement between them was never for
a moment entertained. Bob was too much a man of the world to suppose
that Jenny would ever give him up for another; and poor, soft-headed
Charlie, why, he was sure the Colonel's favourite daughter loved him
still.
Matters went on in this way for some time. The football season was now
about closed, as the month of May was at hand, and all the big matches
had been lost and won, including the Challenge Cup Tie, which Dumbarton
had carried off. For several evenings Bob and Charlie had not come
across one another (although Charlie was also a member of the
Black-and-Whites, as well as the Athletic Park). Bob had blamed Charlie
for telling some stories about a fine young girl whom the former had
promised to make his wife a year previously. The poor girl, it was
hinted, had been jilted to such an extent by Bob, that she had broken
her heart, and pined away and died.
One evening the pair met at the entrance to the pavilion on Hampden
Park, where a lot of the players were lounging about smoking, after
having done with their sides. Most of the club fellows knew that Lambert
and Walker had not spoken to each other for a long time, even to the
extent of exchanging the usual salutations about the weather. They were,
therefore, much astonished to see them in earnest conversation. Menacing
looks were exchanged, and something like curses--not deep, perhaps, but
loud--were heard from the rivals' lips.
The fact was, the men had arranged to settle their "little difference"
with swords. What do you think of that, my nineteenth century
intelligent reader, with all your boasted approach to civilisation and
sacred respect for life? Why, a cold-blooded duel with swords, and in
the French fashion, too! Both hot-headed youths knew comparatively
little about the handling of the chosen weapons, nothing more, indeed,
than what they received while training in the Volunteers; but it was a
"point of honour," and they would do their best.
Several of the Black-and-Whites, who had heard about the proposed
"meeting," had a secret consultation with Ned M'Gill and Davie Merricks,
who, it was whispered, had taken the friendly job of "seconds," and the
whole affair was "adjusted." With swords this was impossible, and they
resolved to resort to the respectable and honourable weapon, the
revolver.
The two men who were to face each other in terrible earnest, you may be
sure, slept little or none during the preceding night. "Four o'clock
sharp, mind, at the grass field, near Hagg's Castle," said the brave
seconds, "and it will be all over in a few minutes." Charlie shuddered
when he heard the last words (which, by the way, were deliberately
intended for him).
"_A few minutes, and all will be over_," Charlie muttered; "what if I
should be killed?" His very teeth (which he used to whiten with cigar
ashes, and was so proud about), were chattering. Thousands of ideas
floated across his heated imagination. He saw his past life before him,
and the only consolation, if it could be called one, lay in the thought
that, should it come to the worst, Jenny Black's eyes would be dimmed
with tears at his misfortune. He felt sure the dear lassie loved him,
and he would brave death a thousand times rather than endure the anguish
of seeing her married to a useless fellow like Bob Lambert.
Bob, on the other hand, was really a cool and determined fellow; and
while Charlie was in the throes speculating about probable dissolution
before the morrow's sun should rise, Bob was actually priding himself on
superior ability in handling a revolver. He was, in fact, far too
arrogant a man to imagine that _he_ could be shot by a silly boy like
Walker. He had made up his mind to shoot straight when the signal fell,
and indulged in the devilish pleasure it would afford him to read a
"true and particular account" of the duel in the Glasgow evening papers,
if good luck would favour him in escaping to the Continent.
"These fellows are not going to come up to the scratch," said Ned M'Gill
to the other honourable gent--as they passed the Clydesdale Cricket
Ground a few minutes to four o'clock on that memorable morning. Ned,
however, was wrong. Through the grey dawn a muffled figure was observed
crossing the Pollokshields Athletic Club's Park, and making direct for
the old castle. Almost simultaneously came a second individual from the
vicinity of Crossmyloof, smoking a cigar. There was no doubt about it,
for on closer inspection the figure was that of Lambert, who generally
indulged in a good cigar, as he had a friend in the Anchor Line who was
always supplying him with "weeds."
A very short time sufficed to measure the distance, but the would-be
_murderers_, no doubt, considered it an age. When the seconds advanced
along with their men to the fatal spot, and placed them twenty paces
apart, Charlie put one in mind of the poor misguided boy in "The
Rivals." His hand shook, and his knees almost touched one another.
_The signal was given_, and bang went the revolvers from both sides.
None of the young men, however, seemed to have been hit; and while
Charlie was almost sinking on the ground from excitement, Bob might have
been seen examining his weapon with suspicion, at the same time casting
a glance at his rival and wondering why he did not fall. A second or two
more, and the latter fired another shot, and this time poor Charlie
dropped his pistol and fell back on the grass.
Bob was satisfied he had done the business now, and taking the advice of
Davie Merricks, he fled for his life; getting the early train for
Greenock and thence per steamer "Golden Eagle," to the Isle of Man.
The "seconds" (and a few strange figures that were seen lurking about)
of course, lifted the supposed dying man from the grass, and as his
"life's blood ebbed away," they whispered about being willing to fill a
last request. Poor Charlie's brow was covered with blood, and as he
himself expressed the terrible sensation of "feeling a pistol ball
bobbing about in his brain," arrangements were hastily made for having
him consigned to relatives. Accordingly his lodgings were sought after
and easily found by the excited hansom driver who had taken them near
the fatal spot.
All the time the affair was going on the driver threw out grave hints
about reporting the whole matter to the police. When they reached
Greenfield Avenue, however, there was still some life in Charlie, but he
said he "knew he was dying," and forgave everybody who had taken part in
the rascally business.
Higgins, the hansom driver, was as good as his word, and after leaving
the place, went direct to the Suburbopolis Police Office, and got the
whole matter reported. Not very long after the police surrounded the
house in Greenfield Avenue, and Provost Goodfellow (who, it may be
remarked, was the only magistrate at home when the affair took place,
and had to be aroused for the purpose), came in all haste to take the
"dying deposition." Meanwhile Dr. Barrister, one of the best of the
local surgeons, was in attendance.
The doctor, however, suspecting something soon after feeling the
supposed wounded man's pulse, and judge of the surprise, to say nothing
of indignation, when the doctor, and then the Provost, began to indulge
in a hearty fit of unrestrained laughter. The "seconds" knew their
business well, for they had _loaded the weapons with blank cartridges
and a few drops of bullock's blood_, and some of the contents of Bob's
pistol had hit Charlie on the brow.
Poor Charlie, he was so terribly shaken and nervous after being hit that
he was long in getting the better of the fright. Like the French
prisoner whom the cruel authorities of the "Inquisition" determined
should be experimented upon as a victim of imagination in the way of
supposed bleeding to death, Charlie, although he had not received a
scratch, thought he was dying fast, till the doctor informed him of the
imaginary wound.
A few days afterwards the affair was "hushed up," and nobody was better
pleased when he heard the true state of matters than Bob Lambert
himself. His friend Jim Campbell had sent a letter to Douglas Post
Office, to be called for, under a fictitious name, and Bob soon returned
to Glasgow.
When little Jenny Black was told the same morning of the duel, that
Charlie Walker had been shot by Bob Lambert, she fainted clean away, and
afterwards refused to be comforted. "To think that she, a poor weak
girl, should have been the cause of such a terrible tragedy," she was
heard to say to her sister, "I'm afraid I'll never get over it." When
the true state of matters, however, was revealed, and the whole affair
brought up in its real light, it afforded immense merriment all over
Suburbopolis, and when football players met to spend a social hour, the
duel between Bob Lambert and Charlie Walker is, of course, alluded to as
a standard joke.
A few months afterwards there was a nice wedding at Colonel Black's
villa, and strange as it may seem, both Lambert and Walker were there,
together with quite a crowd of football players and their sweethearts.
The reader will, of course, easily make out who wore the bridal dress,
and looked lovely in it, too. Surprise, however, not, it is to be hoped,
altogether unmixed with satisfaction, will be expressed, when the
bride-groom appears in the person of Charlie Walker, Jenny's own love.
Harry Carts, the handsome Englishman, she certainly admired, but did not
actually love sufficiently to make a husband of. He, in fact, seemed to
have been too fond of company, and in correspondence a coldness had
sprung up between them, and ended in two parting letters.
Jenny loved Charlie Walker best, and accordingly gave him her heart and
hand. "What he had suffered for her sake," the young lady was heard to
express to a confidant, "no one but himself knew." They are, however,
now a happy pair, and when Cup Ties and big matches are being played
near Suburbopolis, you will be sure to see Charlie and his handsome wife
on the field.